MAD COOL 2018 (Despair in the departure lounge)

The festival grounds at Mad Cool 2018 were completely surfaced over with verdant astroturf and rose out of Madrid’s city limits like a succulent desert mirage. It looked good enough to eat.

Our desire to graze on fake plastic grass may have stemmed from the fact that we had been stripped of our 1-liter bottle of water at the entrance. It was deemed too large, too thirst-quenching in the 36C heat.

IMG_9241It cost me and my brother, Theo, who had flown out from Edinburgh for the occasion, 90 euros each for the day pass on Friday, which was headlined by our long-time favorites the Arctic Monkeys. We had been too slow out the blocks to grab the three-day pass.

In hindsight, I am grateful for that. Sometimes lack of foresight pays off thanks very much.

The lineup was impressive and the organizers had obviously spent time curating the festival area, which was replete with instagrammable food trucks and boutique merchandise. It was pretty.

However, if, like me, you went through a turd-polishing phase in your teens, then you’ll know it’s not easy. (I’d recommend cream-based polish, rather than liquid.)

This superficiality was compounded by a tangible air of exclusivity. We were ants to the VIP picnic. The first 30 or so rows of space in front of the main stage were reserved for those able to pay more for their tickets. As was the four-story scaffolding tent-come-bar thing plonked squarely adjacent to the main stage.

I’m sure some of the bars were off limits to us, too, but I can’t be certain as my view was blocked by my dothed cap as we shuffled grovelingly by.

IMG_9242It’s no less than insulting to fork out nigh on 100 euros for entry, plus the 60 or so on food and captive-audience beers, only to be told: “here? oh no, you can’t go here, get back over there, sweaty.”

Can’t fault him on the sweaty, though.

We were in dire need of liquids when the card machines in all of the festival bars went offline.

Out of cash, and with no ATM on site, we were forced to move from stall to stall like a bow-legged Mary and Joseph to see if there was room at the inn for our baby VISAs. No, came the reply.

We managed to cobble together our remaining ducats for some #Aperol at the #Aperol Spritz stall.

Despair in the departure lounge. We were trapped, money-less and thirsty.

After the Arctic Monkeys, whose fantastic set we were forced to watch from the safety of the Very Unimportant Person section, we barged out of the crowd in search of the free water dispensary located somewhere in the grounds.

IMG-9235Our bottle languishing somewhere in a bin a three days’ camel ride back through security, we were forced to pick up a couple of used beer cups from the ground but hygiene concerns took a back seat when confronted with the queue for water.

Theo was nominated to take on what could only be described as the writhing hordes of Mordor. The mass of parched souls was dozens wide and dozens deep. Everyone jostled to get a drop of the sacred liquid.

He emerged 20 minutes later with plastic-scented water served in what was essentially someone else’s litter. It was hard to find a reason to stay any longer but Massive Attack were soon to play on one of the smaller stages.

The tent was so overcrowded we couldn’t even get near the door, let alone inside the tent. The Bristol trip-hop lads were late and the air filled with whistles. We left and joined the streams of other heading for the exit with three hours to go until the festival actually came to a close.

I later read on Twitter that Massive Attack had canceled, complaining of noise leaking over from Franz Ferdinand.

Although we are loyal disciples to Pastor Alex Turner, the extremely high quality of the music on display was not quite enough to counteract the overwhelming feeling that we had been completely mugged off.

Take heed.

Mad Cool is neither mad nor cool. Don’t go.

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